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The Fighter
Mistflower watched the group of young toms huddle together, eyes glazed with terror. A big black tom herded them together and shoved them towards the entrance, through the copse, down a beaten path, and eventually out of sight of the camp. Once the young toms were gone, the camp was empty save for Mistflower, huddled in her barely-contained fury. Fury towards the black tom for leading those toms to their deaths - and the toms, who went knowing there was no way to change their fate but doing absolutely nothing to try to fight back. All the other cats had gone back to their dens after the black tom had arrived, not wanting to watch them be led away. But one of the young toms had been Mistflower's younger brother, and she hadn't seen off a group since Swiftheart had left. Swiftheart. The name sent a dagger of pain through Mistflower and she moaned softly, shaking her head. Swiftheart had left five moons ago. It had been three moons since his body had been carted back to camp. The lover held her love She begged him not to go Mistflower pressed her shaking flank against Swiftheart's, listening to Scorchclaw call out the names of the toms that would have to leave NightClan to join the Army. The Army that fought mercilessly against DayClan, all day, everyday, for the last year, for no reason other than the fact that both Clans were starving and both Clans wanted rights over the other's territory. Countless cats had died. Not a single soul had ever come home from the Army. Every two moons Scorchclaw would return from the battle lines to call a group of new toms in. NightClan was fairly large and always had a few new warriors to be able to send off to fight for the cause. Every two moons she-cats had to say goodbye to mates, brothers, fathers and friends. Knowing they would never come home. Now, Scorchclaw stood in the middle of camp, amber eyes staring intently at a space between the cats that were gathered. Dawn had just broken, sun rays peeking over the edge of the horizon to light the camp and send rainbows of color through Scorchclaw's black pelt. Mistflower ducked her head and pressed her nose to Swiftheart's shoulder. Every two moons she had to stand here and tremble in fear that she would lose him to the Army, have to hand him over from the safety of the camp to the inevitable death that the war would bring. "Gorsefoot. Kestrelclaw. Swiftheart. Flamep-" "No!" Mistflower wasn't even aware she had screeched the word until Scorchclaw broke off to swivel that intense amber gaze of his to her. She was breathing hard, Swiftheart stiff with shock beside her. The fighter wrapped his gloves The fighter said I know, I know, I know "You can't go," Mistflower had whimpered to Swiftheart the morning that Scorchclaw came to escort them to the battle lines. "Swiftheart - I'll never see you again - we were going to have kits-" He ran his tail across her muzzle, silencing her with the soft touch of his ginger tail. "I will come home, Mistflower, I promise you. I'll be the first. I'll do it." Mistflower stared at her mate's eyes, kind and pale green, eyes she had known since she was hardly a moon old. Her best friend since kithood. "Don't forget me," was all she had been able to whisper before Scorchclaw had nudged Swiftheart away, and the group of toms disappeared into the forest, taking Mistflower's heart with them. Just this one last time I swear you'll still be mine Swiftheart walked beside a young tom named Flamepelt, who's ginger tabby fur was fluffed up to twice it's size, his yellow eyes stretched wide in horror. He let his thoughts wander, and before long they had swerved from the chaos that awaited him at the end of this tree line and fixed themselves on Mistflower. He silvery fur, those dark blue eyes, the feel of her tail tip brushing down his flank. We could've had a wonderful life, he thought to himself, tilting his face up to try to feel the sun's warmth on his muzzle. But the trees here were too thick, their branches interlocked to keep the light out. The only air that touched his forehead was cold and clammy. But then what? If we had kits, made our mate status official? I would never be safe. I could've been drafted after we had kits. That would be worse. And even if I didn't ever get drafted, I would have to fear that any sons I have would be sent to the war... Swiftheart felt his legs suddenly go weak, as if he were tired, tired with the war, tired with the sadness about leaving Mistflower, tired already from the weight of the promise he had made to her. Swiftheart found himself growling, a gray-brown tom named Kestrelclaw glancing at him curiously over his shoulder. Swiftheart avoided his stare and focused his wave of hatred on Scorchclaw. It's all his fault, Swiftheart snarled to himself, claws digging into soil but itching to sink into his black coat. This whole war is stupid and pointless. All the lives that have been lost... "We're here," Scorchclaw called, his tail flicking to and fro uneasily. He can't promise much He goes for one last touch, one last touch "Swiftheart stared in dismay at the war zone. He had heard stories, but he had never imagined it would look quite like this. An empty field the size of NightClan's territory, the grass dead from all the blood that clogged it's roots, forming a floor of sticky, slippery wetness. Scraps of fur and skin lay everywhere, and everywhere there were cats screaming, slashing, biting. The only sounds were screeches and the noise of claws tearing through flesh that sounded louder than it should have been. How in the name of StarClan am I going to be able to get out of this alive? Swiftheart thought to himself as he surveyed the amount of torn and disfigured bodies that were just as abundant in the field as the blood. "Stormwind! Dewflight! Birdtail! Get out of there, we have replacements!" Swiftheart watched as three cats detatched themselves from battle - simply by killing their opponents to ensure no one would be attacking their backs as they ran to the sidelines. Swiftheart felt sick as the cats approached them; pelt colors were unable to be determined, for their coats were completely clogged with blood. Wounds laced their backs, flanks, shoulders and legs, and two of the three toms were limping. "Go to the camp and get treated," Scorchclaw ordered, and the three toms seemed to find the energy to race away from the battle zone, through a clump of bushes and disappear into the forest. "Now go!" Scorchclaw snarled at Swiftheart and the others. Swiftheart turned away from the black commander and hesitated only a moment before plunging into the battle. Maybe we were meant to be lonely, lonely Maybe we were meant to be on our own Swiftheart raked his claws across the first pelt he came across that smelled of DayClan; a voice wailed, and his ear stung as the tip was nicked by thorn-sharp claws. He turned and sank his teeth into another tail, but he felt claws in his throat, and panic flared in his belly. Fight! He kicked out his back legs and felt them connect with a belly, heard breath rush out of a mouth against his ear as he hit lungs. A pawful of back claws tore down his flank, and he snarled, finding the flash of a white throat and sinking his teeth in immediately. The cat below him let out a gurgling screech and struggled, but death was already pulling at the other cat's pelt, and he went still within moments. Swiftheart released the tom and staggered back a step, spitting to rid himself of the warm blood that was sticking like glue to the roof of his mouth, his tongue, the back of his throat. I've been fighting for ten minutes and already killed a cat! That was the only horrified thought Swiftheart could have before teeth sank into his back leg and he was thrown back into the fighting once more. Loneliness has always been with me, with me But maybe we don't have to be all alone After fighting for an hour, Swiftheart's mind shut itself down, and soon he was fighting simply on instinct. His claws slashed through whatever flesh he could find, NightClan or DayClan alike, his teeth bit into tails and ears and legs, he fought back at whatever attacked him. Instead of seeing the battle in front of him, the blood and dying cats and his opponents, his senses went blank. He saw Mistflower, asleep in front of him in the warrior's den, smell her perfume wreathed around him and feel her fur under his paws instead of tearing skin. He could've easily been killed in this auto-pilot-like mode, but somehow, mercifully, jaws clamped around his tail and dragged him back until he was in the sidelines, looking up at Scorchclaw, yanked from his blind state. "You fought good today, Swiftheart. Go ahead and go back to base with Marshfur and get some food and treatment for your wounds." The black tom nodded and turned away to talk to a gray tabby tom with a long cut down the side of his face. A light brown tabby who Swiftheart assumed was Marshfur nudged his flank and led the way through the tight clump of bushes, down a path, deep into the woods but farther still from NightClan camp. Marshfur found a pile of herbs wrapped in cobweb, which he showed Swiftheart how to apply before loping off and coming back with two mice which he dropped at Swiftheart's paws. "Once you've eaten you can do whatever you like, just don't go back to the battle zone until Scorchclaw calls you back. Though I suspect you wouldn't want to anyway, looking at that wound across your neck." And then Marshfur was gone, leaving Swiftheart alone with his meal. But he couldn't imagine eating it. Now that he was out of his hallucination, he was free to think about all the cats he killed tonight, all the fathers and brothers and mates he murdered. His belly clenching around nausea, he abandoned his meal and left the base, travelling away from the base, away from the battle zone, away from the NightClan camp. The fighter goes inside The dawn is creeping in The forest was dead silent, other than the faint chittering of birds high in the treetops and the sound of Swiftheart's paws shifting through the leaves. A long cut across the top of his shoulders was burning, blood dripping off his right flank, but he didn't stop to clean the wound, couldn't stop. One of his forepaws caught in a root twisting from the trunk of a tree, and hissing in frustration he tripped and pitched forward. His twisted paw aching, Swiftheart rolled onto his side, pressing his nose into the ground. At least the soil smelled familiar, smelled of home. The air here didn't even feel the same, the trees too different and the sunlight a strange color, lacking it's warmth. Behind closed eyelids, Swiftheart could tell it was lightening outside, and when he opened his eyes a faint strip of pink marked where the sun was about to mount the horizon. He struggled to his paws, his twisted muscles sending cramps all up his leg, and sat watching the sun rise. One day. He'd been away from Mistflower for one day now. One day he'd been here, fighting for useless reasons, killing for nothing. Amazing how different a cat can be from the tom he was just a day before, Swiftheart thought to himself bitterly. He could feel anger inside of him, burning hotter than the sun, more intense than it had ever been so far. Anger at the war, and the lives it took. Anger at Scorchclaw, for taking away all the young toms from their Clan who would have otherwise had a long life. Anger at himself, for letting the war change him from the cat he was, changing him to a murderer. Anger at himself for leaving Mistflower, and their possible life together, behind. Howling his anger and grief to the rising sun, Swiftheart reared onto his back legs and sank his claws into the bark of the tree who's roots had tripped him, tearing them down so fiercely it left deep furrows in the wood. He swings with all his might At all that might have been Mistflower padded from her den, pausing at the enterance to stretch, arching her back and reaching out her forepaws as far as they would go. It was her first morning without Swiftheart, and her insides were numb, though the air promised a warm day once the sun had risen. Mistflower crossed the empty camp; everyone was still asleep, mounds of sleepy warm fur in their dens, rising and falling with each breath. Everything was normal for them - a normal morning, normal duties. Patrols would be sent out, hunting parties would return struggling under the weight of their catch, and apprentices would mope about cleaning the elders'. For everyone else it was normal. For her it would never be the same. Sitting on a broad, flat stone that still held a nighttime chill, Mistflower wrapped her tail over her paws and watched the sun mount in the sky, hoping somewhere in the depths of the woods Swiftheart was watching it too. At least in that way they would be as close as they couldg get. And she's in love with him But lovers don't always win "Swiftheart! We've been looking all over for you!" He jerked his head around - it was Kestrelclaw and Gorsefoot. The only other cats still alive from his group that he had come with. He'd seen Flamepelt and the other tabby tom's bodies in camp earlier. "What?" he snapped, his anger making his voice sharp. Kestrelclaw flicked an ear in confusion but didn't comment on his otherwise grouchy mood. "Back to base. We're going to get painkillers for our old wounds, breakfast, and then we're being sent back out." Swiftheart narrowed his eyes. They were being sent out already? Without even a full day to let wounds heal and hungry bellies be filled to restore strength? "We're some of the last fighters that are valuable," Gorsefoot said with a sigh, guessing Swiftheart's line of thought. "We're going to be worked to the bone." Kestrelclaw flicked his tail and led the way back to camp, Gorsefoot trotting after him and Swiftheart trailing behind. He never even saw the swing She calls out his name, calls him name Swiftheart was plunged back into battle, and it hit him as it he had been shoved into an icy stream. His insides seemed to seize up, and he was fighting with even more ferocity than the day before. Because now he had a purpose - to keep his promise to Mistflower. He didn't know what happened to cats who escaped from the war, who ran away, but he was going to try. He raked his claws across the throat of a black tom with a snarl, watching his first opponent of the day slip lifelessly to the blood-soaked ground. Maybe we were meant to be lonely, lonely Maybe we were meant to be on our own His shoulder burned as teeth fixed into his fur, and he rolled, crushing the cat beneath him while sinking his claws into the neck of another cat and dragging him down with them. He found himself sandwiched between two wriggling bodies, one on top that was dying quickly and one beneath, struggling in vain to free itself. Swiftheart pressed his weight down into the body below him, feeling ribs snap and hearing a shriek in his ear, and then threw the cat on top of his away with his claws. By the time he had torn open the belly of the cat below him, the one that had been on top was just another corpse in the field. Loneliness has always been with me, with me But maybe we don't have to be all alone Mistflower licked her silver flank, her mind lost in memories of her and Swiftheart. She was pulled out of the warmth of her mate's fur by a yowl. She lifted her head just in time to see Scorchclaw leading in the patrol of soldiers who carried in the bodies every day. His amber eyes, always full of expression, were somber as he led the party into camp. Mistflower held her breath, getting to her paws. She scanned the bodies that the toms displaced onto the ground, for familiar dark tabby fur - but none of the dead toms were Swiftheart. Her insides relaxed, somewhat reluctantly. What breaks your bones Is not the load you're carrying Swiftheart sank his teeth into the scruff of a gray tom and shook till the shrieking stopped, flinging the body to the side. Mistflower would be horrified if she found out how brutal he was with his killing - but he was doing it to get back to her, to live. She'd understand. '' ''Swiftheart had fought his way to the opposite side of the field. The bushes here were too thick to easily get through, but after killing the last cat in radius of Swiftheart, he cast one look over his shoulder and plunged through. The tear of branches across his skin reminded him of the burn of claws and he shivered but forced through the bushes till he was on the other side. He paused only for a moment before turning and pelting for the NightClan camp. What breaks you down Is all in how you carry Swiftheart put his legs to the test as he ran, his breath coming in shallow gasps and his muscles nearly tearing with every step. But he was nearly home; if he kept this speed he'd be there before sunset. The only thing that kept him going, kept him from collapsing from exhaustion and lack of food and the firey ache from all his wounds, was the thought he was escaping all that blood, screaming, killing. '' ''And the thought of being with Mistflower again. '' '''The lover held her love' She begged him not to go She unwrapped his gloves Mistflower lifted her head as the faint breath of familiar scent touched her. She had assured herself it was just her imagination, but when the scent grew stronger, she gapsed and got to her paws. Impossible! But no, there he was - alive. His tabby fur was streaked with blood and he looked exhausted, but those eyes were burning, just like they always used to be. '' ''Mistflower couldn't breathe, felt constricted. How? He was supposed to be in war! He couldn't be here! Was her mind playing tricks on her? But no, she was sure she wouldn't hallucinate him with so much blood on him... "Mistflower," he croaked, taking one step closer. It was all she needed to throw herself across the distance and press into his fur. The lover said I know, I know, I know Kissed his trembling lips "What in StarClan's name is this?" Swiftheart whirled around, snarling, placing himself between Mistflower and the voice. It was Scorchclaw, and he looked furious, pelt bristling and eyes flaring an orange like fire. "Swiftheart? You're supposed to be at the field! Some cat said they saw someone slip out of the bushes and I said I would follow. Are you so ashamed to fight for your Clan that you can't stay in battle?" Swiftheart howled, his claws sinking into the ground. '' ''"Yes! I'm ashamed to be killing cats for no reason! To tear out cat's throats for no reason other than to prove a point! I won't let you do that to me!" Scorchclaw growled, tail lashing. '' ''"We have to consider you a traitor now. You're going to be killed. Do you understand that?" Swiftheart looked him dead in the eye. '' ''"Then so be it. I'll die loyal to my true self and not a puppet of the Clan's." Mistflower's heart clenched. '' ''"No!" But she could've been the wind rustling through their fur for all they heard her. Swiftheart and Scorchclaw were locked in a furious staring match; before long, Scorchclaw flicked his tail and two large toms came behind them, sinking teeth and claws into Swiftheart's coat and dragging him away, leaving Mistflower screaming after them. She touched his fingertips But somehow they both know, Mistflower was sitting shell-shocked in the middle of camp the next morning. Swiftheart hadn't come back, and neither had Scorchclaw or the two toms. She hadn't slept at all that night - all she saw everytime she tried was Swiftheart's expression as he snarled defiance at the war commander. Now, Scorchclaw led the troops carrying the day's casualties into camp. Mistflower didn't need to look to know Swiftheart would be among them, and she was right; the first body was dark tabby. His eyes, even in death, still looked hard with stubborness. Mistflower felt a sob choke and die in her chest. He's not coming home, coming home Maybe we were meant to be lonely, lonely That had been four moons ago. Now, their moon-old kits tumbled around Mistflower's paws, tugging at her pelt with tiny claws. She bent her head to lick both of them atop the head and nudge them toward the nursery, watching them scuttle away. The tom had her silvery coat, but the she-cat's was dark brown tabby. Her name was Swiftkit, and even now she looked frighteningly like her father, with his defiance and stubborn as a rock. Mistflower got to her paws, padding over to a young white she-cat, Icelily. Her mate had been in the patrol that left for the war lands just now, and she looked distraught, her ears flicking. "He's not coming back," Icelily murmured, shaking her head sadly. "I know he won't. But I can't help but hope." Mistflower sighed and rasped her tongue over Icelily's ear, sitting beside the young she-cat. Maybe we were meant to be on our own Cause I gotta try, or it will destroy me "Sometimes hope is all we can do." But maybe we don't have to be all alone.